Devil\'s Ford

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DEVIL'S FORD

by Bret Harte




DEVIL'S FORD




CHAPTER I


It was a season of unequalled prosperity in Devil's Ford. The half a
dozen cabins scattered along the banks of the North Fork, as if by some
overflow of that capricious river, had become augmented during a week of
fierce excitement by twenty or thirty others, that were huddled together
on the narrow gorge of Devil's Spur, or cast up on its steep sides. So
sudden and violent had been the change of fortune, that the dwellers
in the older cabins had not had time to change with it, but still kept
their old habits, customs, and even their old clothes. The flour pan in
which their daily bread was mixed stood on the rude table side by side
with the "prospecting pans," half full of gold washed up from their
morning's work; the front windows of the newer tenements looked upon
the one single thoroughfare, but the back door opened upon the uncleared
wilderness, still haunted by the misshapen bulk of bear or the nightly
gliding of catamount.

Neither had success as yet affected their boyish simplicity and the
frankness of old frontier habits; they played with their new-found
riches with the naive delight of children, and rehearsed their glowing
future with the importance and triviality of school-boys.

"I've bin kalklatin'," said Dick Mattingly, leaning on his long-handled
shovel with lazy gravity, "that when I go to Rome this winter, I'll get
one o' them marble sharps to chisel me a statoo o' some kind to set up
on the spot where we made our big strike. Suthin' to remember it by, you
know."

"What kind o' statoo--Washington or Webster?" asked one of the Kearney
brothers, without looking up from his work.

"No--I reckon one o' them fancy groups--one o' them Latin goddesses that
Fairfax is always gassin' about, sorter leadin', directin' and bossin'
us where to dig."

"You'd make a healthy-lookin' figger in a group," responded Kearney,
critically regarding an enormous patch in Mattingly's trousers. "Why
don't you have a fountain instead?"

"Where'll you get the water?" demanded the first speaker, in return.
"You know there ain't enough in the North Fork to do a week's washing
for the camp--to say nothin' of its color."

"Leave that to me," said Kearney, with self-possession. "When I've built
that there reservoir on Devil's Spur, and bring the water over the ridge
from Union Ditch, there'll be enough to spare for that."

"Better mix it up, I reckon--have suthin' half statoo, half fountain,"
interposed the elder Mattingly, better known as "Maryland Joe," "and set
it up afore the Town Hall and Free Library I'm kalklatin' to give. Do
THAT, and you can count on me."

After some further discussion, it was gravely settled that Kearney
should furnish water brought from the Union Ditch, twenty miles away,
at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars, to feed a memorial fountain
erected by Mattingly, worth a hundred thousand dollars, as a crowning
finish to public buildings contributed by Maryland Joe, to the extent
of half a million more. The disposition of these vast sums by gentlemen
wearing patched breeches awakened no sense of the ludicrous, nor did any
doubt, reservation, or contingency enter into the plans of the charming
enthusiasts themselves. The foundation of their airy castles lay already
before them in the strip of rich alluvium on the river bank, where the
North Fork, sharply curving round the base of Devil's Spur, had for
centuries swept the detritus of gulch and canyon. They had barely
crossed the threshold of this treasure-house, to find themselves rich
men; what possibilities of affluence might be theirs when they had fully
exploited their possessions? So confident were they of that ultimate
prospect, that the wealth already thus obtained was religiously expended
in engines and machinery for the boring of wells and the conveyance of
that precious water which the exhausted river had long since ceased to
yield. It seemed as if the gold they had taken out was by some ironical
compensation gradually making its way back to the soil again through
ditch and flume and reservoir.

Such was the position of affairs at Devil's Ford on the 13th of August,
1860. It was noon of a hot day. Whatever movement there was in the
stifling air was seen rather than felt in a tremulous, quivering,
upward-moving dust along the flank of the mountain, through which the
spires of the pines were faintly visible. There was no water in the
bared and burning bars of the river to reflect the vertical sun, but
under its direct rays one or two tinned roofs and corrugated zinc cabins
struck fire, a few canvas tents became dazzling to the eye, and the
white wooded corral of the stage office and hotel insupportable. For
two hours no one ventured in the glare of the open, or even to cross the
narrow, unshadowed street, whose dull red dust seemed to glow between
the lines of straggling houses. The heated shells of these green
unseasoned tenements gave out a pungent odor of scorching wood and
resin. The usual hurried, feverish toil in the claim was suspended;
the pick and shovel were left sticking in the richest "pay gravel;"
the toiling millionaires themselves, ragged, dirty, and perspiring, lay
panting under the nearest shade, where the pipes went out listlessly,
and conversation sank to monosyllables.

"There's Fairfax," said Dick Mattingly, at last, with a lazy effort. His
face was turned to the hillside, where a man had just emerged from
the woods, and was halting irresolutely before the glaring expanse of
upheaved gravel and glistening boulders that stretched between him and
the shaded group. "He's going to make a break for it," he added, as the
stranger, throwing his linen coat over his head, suddenly started into
an Indian trot through the pelting sunbeams toward them. This strange
act was perfectly understood by the group, who knew that in that
intensely dry heat the danger of exposure was lessened by active
exercise and the profuse perspiration that followed it. In another
moment the stranger had reached their side, dripping as if rained upon,
mopping his damp curls and handsome bearded face with his linen coat, as
he threw himself pantingly on the ground.

"I struck out over here first, boys, to give you a little warning," he
said, as soon as he had gained breath. "That engineer will be down here
to take charge as soon as the six o'clock stage comes in. He's an oldish
chap, has got a family of two daughters, and--I--am--d----d if he is not
bringing them down here with him."

"Oh, go long!" exclaimed the five men in one voice, raising themselves
on their hands and elbows, and glaring at the speaker.

"Fact, boys! Soon as I found it out I just waltzed into that Jew shop at
the Crossing and bought up all the clothes that would be likely to suit
you fellows, before anybody else got a show. I reckon I cleared out the
shop. The duds are a little mixed in style, but I reckon they're clean
and whole, and a man might face a lady in 'em. I left them round at the
old Buckeye Spring, where they're handy without attracting attention.
You boys can go there for a general wash-up, rig yourselves up without
saying anything, and then meander back careless and easy in your store
clothes, just as the stage is coming in, sabe?"

"Why didn't you let us know earlier?" asked Mattingly aggrievedly;
"you've been back here at least an hour."

"I've been getting some place ready for THEM," returned the new-comer.
"We might have managed to put the man somewhere, if he'd been alone, but
these women want family accommodation. There was nothing left for me to
do but to buy up Thompson's saloon."

"No?" interrupted his audience, half in incredulity, half in
protestation.

"Fact! You boys will have to take your drinks under canvas again, I
reckon! But I made Thompson let those gold-framed mirrors that used to
stand behind the bar go into the bargain, and they sort of furnish the
room. You know the saloon is one of them patent houses you can take to
pieces, and I've been reckoning you boys will have to pitch in and help
me to take the whole shanty over to the laurel bushes, and put it up
agin Kearney's cabin."

"What's all that?" said the younger Kearney, with an odd mingling of
astonishment and bashful gratification.

"Yes, I reckon yours is the cleanest house, because it's the newest, so
you'll just step out and let us knock in one o' the gables, and clap it
on to the saloon, and make ONE house of it, don't you see? There'll be
two rooms, one for the girls and the other for the old man."

The astonishment and bewilderment of the party had gradually given way
to a boyish and impatient interest.

"Hadn't we better do the job at once?" suggested Dick Mattingly.

"Or throw ourselves into those new clothes, so as to be ready," added
the younger Kearney, looking down at his ragged trousers. "I say,
Fairfax, what are the girls like, eh?"

All the others had been dying to ask the question, yet one and all
laughed at the conscious manner and blushing cheek of the questioner.

"You'll find out quick enough," returned Fairfax, whose curt
carelessness did not, however, prevent a slight increase of color on his
own cheek. "We'd better get that job off our hands before doing anything
else. So, if you're ready, boys, we'll just waltz down to Thompson's and
pack up the shanty. He's out of it by this time, I reckon. You might
as well be perspiring to some purpose over there as gaspin' under this
tree. We won't go back to work this afternoon, but knock off now, and
call it half a day. Come! Hump yourselves, gentlemen. Are you ready?
One, two, three, and away!"

In another instant the tree was deserted; the figures of the five
millionaires of Devil's Ford, crossing the fierce glare of the open
space, with boyish alacrity, glistened in the sunlight, and then
disappeared in the nearest fringe of thickets.




CHAPTER II


Six hours later, when the shadow of Devil's Spur had crossed the river,
and spread a slight coolness over the flat beyond, the Pioneer coach,
leaving the summit, began also to bathe its heated bulk in the long
shadows of the descent. Conspicuous among the dusty passengers, the
two pretty and youthful faces of the daughters of Philip Carr, mining
superintendent and engineer, looked from the windows with no little
anxiety towards their future home in the straggling settlement below,
that occasionally came in view at the turns of the long zigzagging road.
A slight look of comical disappointment passed between them as they
gazed upon the sterile flat, dotted with unsightly excrescences that
stood equally for cabins or mounds of stone and gravel. It was so feeble
and inconsistent a culmination to the beautiful scenery they had passed
through, so hopeless and imbecile a conclusion to the preparation of
that long picturesque journey, with its glimpses of sylvan and pastoral
glades and canyons, that, as the coach swept down the last incline,
and the remorseless monotony of the dead level spread out before them,
furrowed by ditches and indented by pits, under cover of shielding their
cheeks from the impalpable dust that rose beneath the plunging
wheels, they buried their faces in their handkerchiefs, to hide a few
half-hysterical tears. Happily, their father, completely absorbed in a
practical, scientific, and approving contemplation of the topography
and material resources of the scene of his future labors, had no time
to notice their defection. It was not until the stage drew up before
a rambling tenement bearing the inscription, "Hotel and Stage Office,"
that he became fully aware of it.

"We can't stop HERE, papa," said Christie Carr decidedly, with a shake
of her pretty head. "You can't expect that."

Mr. Carr looked up at the building; it was half grocery, half saloon.
Whatever other accommodations it contained must have been hidden in the
rear, as the flat roof above was almost level with the raftered ceiling
of the shop.

"Certainly," he replied hurriedly; "we'll see to that in a moment. I
dare say it's all right. I told Fairfax we were coming. Somebody ought
to be here."

"But they're not," said Jessie Carr indignantly; "and the few that were
here scampered off like rabbits to their burrows as soon as they saw us
get down."

It was true. The little group of loungers before the building had
suddenly disappeared. There was the flash of a red shirt vanishing in an
adjacent doorway; the fading apparition of a pair of high boots and blue
overalls in another; the abrupt withdrawal of a curly blond head from a
sashless window over the way. Even the saloon was deserted, although
a back door in the dim recess seemed to creak mysteriously. The
stage-coach, with the other passengers, had already rattled away.

"I certainly think Fairfax understood that I--" began Mr. Carr.

He was interrupted by the pressure of Christie's fingers on his arm and
a subdued exclamation from Jessie, who was staring down the street.

"What are they?" she whispered in her sister's ear. "Nigger minstrels, a
circus, or what?"

The five millionaires of Devil's Ford had just turned the corner of the
straggling street, and were approaching in single file. One glance was
sufficient to show that they had already availed themselves of the new
clothing bought by Fairfax, had washed, and one or two had shaved. But
the result was startling.

Through some fortunate coincidence in size, Dick Mattingly was the only
one who had achieved an entire new suit. But it was of funereal black
cloth, and although relieved at one extremity by a pair of high riding
boots, in which his too short trousers were tucked, and at the other
by a tall white hat, and cravat of aggressive yellow, the effect was
depressing. In agreeable contrast, his brother, Maryland Joe, was
attired in a thin fawn-colored summer overcoat, lightly worn open, so as
to show the unstarched bosom of a white embroidered shirt, and a pair of
nankeen trousers and pumps.

The Kearney brothers had divided a suit between them, the elder wearing
a tightly-fitting, single-breasted blue frock-coat and a pair of pink
striped cotton trousers, while the younger candidly displayed the
trousers of his brother's suit, as a harmonious change to a shining
black alpaca coat and crimson neckerchief. Fairfax, who brought up the
rear, had, with characteristic unselfishness, contented himself with a
French workman's blue blouse and a pair of white duck trousers. Had they
shown the least consciousness of their finery, or of its absurdity, they
would have seemed despicable. But only one expression beamed on the five
sunburnt and shining faces--a look of unaffected boyish gratification
and unrestricted welcome.

They halted before Mr. Carr and his daughters, simultaneously removed
their various and remarkable head coverings, and waited until Fairfax
advanced and severally presented them. Jessie Carr's half-frightened
smile took refuge in the trembling shadows of her dark lashes; Christie
Carr stiffened slightly, and looked straight before her.

"We reckoned--that is--we intended to meet you and the young ladies at
the grade," said Fairfax, reddening a little as he endeavored to
conceal his too ready slang, "and save you from trapesing--from dragging
yourselves up grade again to your house."

"Then there IS a house?" said Jessie, with an alarming frank laugh
of relief, that was, however, as frankly reflected in the boyishly
appreciative eyes of the young men.

"Such as it is," responded Fairfax, with a shade of anxiety, as he
glanced at the fresh and pretty costumes of the young women, and
dubiously regarded the two Saratoga trunks resting hopelessly on the
veranda. "I'm afraid it isn't much, for what you're accustomed to. But,"
he added more cheerfully, "it will do for a day or two, and perhaps
you'll give us the pleasure of showing you the way there now."

The procession was quickly formed. Mr. Carr, alive only to the actual
business that had brought him there, at once took possession of
Fairfax, and began to disclose his plans for the working of the mine,
occasionally halting to look at the work already done in the ditches,
and to examine the field of his future operations. Fairfax, not
displeased at being thus relieved of a lighter attendance on Mr.
Carr's daughters, nevertheless from time to time cast a paternal glance
backwards upon their escorts, who had each seized a handle of the two
trunks, and were carrying them in couples at the young ladies' side. The
occupation did not offer much freedom for easy gallantry, but no sign
of discomfiture or uneasiness was visible in the grateful faces of the
young men. The necessity of changing hands at times with their burdens
brought a corresponding change of cavalier at the lady's side, although
it was observed that the younger Kearney, for the sake of continuing a
conversation with Miss Jessie, kept his grasp of the handle nearest the
young lady until his hand was nearly cut through, and his arm worn out
by exhaustion.

"The only thing on wheels in the camp is a mule wagon, and the mules are
packin' gravel from the river this afternoon," explained Dick Mattingly
apologetically to Christie, "or we'd have toted--I mean carried--you and
your baggage up to the shant--the--your house. Give us two weeks more,
Miss Carr--only two weeks to wash up our work and realize--and we'll
give you a pair of 2.40 steppers and a skeleton buggy to meet you at the
top of the hill and drive you over to the cabin. Perhaps you'd prefer
a regular carriage; some ladies do. And a nigger driver. But what's the
use of planning anything? Afore that time comes we'll have run you up
a house on the hill, and you shall pick out the spot. It wouldn't take
long--unless you preferred brick. I suppose we could get brick over from
La Grange, if you cared for it, but it would take longer. If you
could put up for a time with something of stained glass and a mahogany
veranda--"

In spite of her cold indignation, and the fact that she could understand
only a part of Mattingly's speech, Christie comprehended enough to make
her lift her clear eyes to the speaker, as she replied freezingly that
she feared she would not trouble them long with her company.

"Oh, you'll get over that," responded Mattingly, with an exasperating
confidence that drove her nearly frantic, from the manifest kindliness
of intent that made it impossible for her to resent it. "I felt that way
myself at first. Things will look strange and unsociable for a while,
until you get the hang of them. You'll naturally stamp round and cuss a
little--" He stopped in conscious consternation.

With ready tact, and before Christie could reply, Maryland Joe had put
down the trunk and changed hands with his brother.

"You mustn't mind Dick, or he'll go off and kill himself with shame," he
whispered laughingly in her ear. "He means all right, but he's picked
up so much slang here that he's about forgotten how to talk English, and
it's nigh on to four years since he's met a young lady."

Christie did not reply. Yet the laughter of her sister in advance with
the Kearney brothers seemed to make the reserve with which she tried to
crush further familiarity only ridiculous.

"Do you know many operas, Miss Carr?"

She looked at the boyish, interested, sunburnt face so near to her
own, and hesitated. After all, why should she add to her other real
disappointments by taking this absurd creature seriously?

"In what way?" she returned, with a half smile.

"To play. On the piano, of course. There isn't one nearer here than
Sacramento; but I reckon we could get a small one by Thursday. You
couldn't do anything on a banjo?" he added doubtfully; "Kearney's got
one."

"I imagine it would be very difficult to carry a piano over those
mountains," said Christie laughingly, to avoid the collateral of the
banjo.

"We got a billiard-table over from Stockton," half bashfully interrupted
Dick Mattingly, struggling from his end of the trunk to recover his
composure, "and it had to be brought over in sections on the back of a
mule, so I don't see why--" He stopped short again in confusion, at a
sign from his brother, and then added, "I mean, of course, that a piano
is a heap more delicate, and valuable, and all that sort of thing, but
it's worth trying for."

"Fairfax was always saying he'd get one for himself, so I reckon it's
possible," said Joe.

"Does he play?" asked Christie.

"You bet," said Joe, quite forgetting himself in his enthusiasm. "He can
snatch Mozart and Beethoven bald-headed."

In the embarrassing silence that followed this speech the fringe of pine
wood nearest the flat was reached. Here there was a rude "clearing," and
beneath an enormous pine stood the two recently joined tenements. There
was no attempt to conceal the point of junction between Kearney's
cabin and the newly-transported saloon from the flat--no architectural
illusion of the palpable collusion of the two buildings, which seemed
to be telescoped into each other. The front room or living room occupied
the whole of Kearney's cabin. It contained, in addition to the necessary
articles for housekeeping, a "bunk" or berth for Mr. Carr, so as to
leave the second building entirely to the occupation of his daughters as
bedroom and boudoir.

There was a half-humorous, half-apologetic exhibition of the rude
utensils of the living room, and then the young men turned away as the
two girls entered the open door of the second room. Neither Christie nor
Jessie could for a moment understand the delicacy which kept these young
men from accompanying them into the room they had but a few moments
before decorated and arranged with their own hands, and it was not until
they turned to thank their strange entertainers that they found that
they were gone.

The arrangement of the second room was rude and bizarre, but not without
a singular originality and even tastefulness of conception. What had
been the counter or "bar" of the saloon, gorgeous in white and gold,
now sawn in two and divided, was set up on opposite sides of the room as
separate dressing-tables, decorated with huge bunches of azaleas, that
hid the rough earthenware bowls, and gave each table the appearance of a
vestal altar.

The huge gilt plate-glass mirror which had hung behind the bar still
occupied one side of the room, but its length was artfully divided by
an enormous rosette of red, white, and blue muslin--one of the surviving
Fourth of July decorations of Thompson's saloon. On either side of the
door two pathetic-looking, convent-like cots, covered with spotless
sheeting, and heaped up in the middle, like a snow-covered grave, had
attracted their attention. They were still staring at them when Mr. Carr
anticipated their curiosity.

"I ought to tell you that the young men confided to me the fact that
there was neither bed nor mattress to be had on the Ford. They have
filled some flour sacks with clean dry moss from the woods, and put half
a dozen blankets on the top, and they hope you can get along until
the messenger who starts to-night for La Grange can bring some bedding
over."

Jessie flew with mischievous delight to satisfy herself of the truth
of this marvel. "It's so, Christie," she said laughingly--"three
flour-sacks apiece; but I'm jealous: yours are all marked 'superfine,'
and mine 'middlings.'"

Mr. Carr had remained uneasily watching Christie's shadowed face.

"What matters?" she said drily. "The accommodation is all in keeping."

"It will be better in a day or two," he continued, casting a longing
look towards the door--the first refuge of masculine weakness in an
impending domestic emergency. "I'll go and see what can be done," he
said feebly, with a sidelong impulse towards the opening and freedom.
"I've got to see Fairfax again to-night any way."

"One moment, father," said Christie, wearily. "Did you know anything of
this place and these--these people--before you came?"

"Certainly--of course I did," he returned, with the sudden testiness of
disturbed abstraction. "What are you thinking of? I knew the geological
strata and the--the report of Fairfax and his partners before I
consented to take charge of the works. And I can tell you that there is
a fortune here. I intend to make my own terms, and share in it."

"And not take a salary or some sum of money down?" said Christie, slowly
removing her bonnet in the same resigned way.

"I am not a hired man, or a workman, Christie," said her father sharply.
"You ought not to oblige me to remind you of that."

"But the hired men--the superintendent and his workmen--were the only
ones who ever got anything out of your last experience with Colonel
Waters at La Grange, and--and we at least lived among civilized people
there."

"These young men are not common people, Christie; even if they have
forgotten the restraints of speech and manners, they're gentlemen."

"Who are willing to live like--like negroes."

"You can make them what you please."

Christie raised her eyes. There was a certain cynical ring in her
father's voice that was unlike his usual hesitating abstraction. It both
puzzled and pained her.